


Warm Memories

by DixieDale



Category: Clan O'Donnell - Fandom, Garrison's Gorillas, Girl From Uncle, Hogan's Heroes, The Man from UNCLE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 06:29:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17555132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: Memories, especially the warm ones, can provide a great deal of comfort.  Of course, some memories are warmer than others.This story takes place somewhere during the time after Chapters One and Two, and Chapter Four of 'Mr. Ecks and Mr. Wye'.





	1. Apres-Ski

**Author's Note:**

> Note: My story 'Mr. Ecks and Mr Wye', was my 'afterstory' to the MFU episode 'The Odd Man Affair'. Chapter One - 'Fathers and Uncles' - and Two - 'Mr Ecks, Mr Wye and Mr G' - explain that infamous meeting in Mr. Waverly's office and the 'animosity' between the oldest daughter of Craig Garrison, Goniff Grainger and Meghada O'Donnell, and Illya Kuryakin. Chapter Four - 'Of All The Gin Joints In All The World' - brings the UNCLE agents back in contact with the girl and the two supposedly dead former agents, Mr Ecks and Mr Wye. I've always known there was a backstory as to why Mr. Waverly caved so easily to the outside urgings to let Mr. Ecks and Mr Wye remain 'dead' over the protests of his top two agents. Oh, there was mention of an old debt, and there was the new debt from recovery of that microdot, but perhaps there was a little more to the story, perhaps a little pressure at the Waverly home? Maybe even at the home of an old 'friend'.
> 
> As always, sincere gratitude and appreciation for the masterful Christopher Cary for his unforgettable rendition of two favorite characters - Goniff Grainger and Mr. Ecks. Well, three and more if you take into account young Randy Garrison and Sam Craig Garrison Travers and probably many, many more who've become part of my GG universe. In my imagination, he certainly plays them as well.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A hapless Thrush agent, an energetic widow, a missing microdot, an isolated ski resort in the mountains of Colorado. Just another week in the lives of UNCLE agents Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin, but one that would have a life-long impact and leave them with equally long memories.

They hadn't been back in a year, but they still talked and laughed about that time at the Meadowfield Ski Resort. Amazing how a simple assignment could have led to such a seismic shift.

While they had been in agreement that it seemed a rather odd name for an area with neither a meadow or a field in sight, the small placard in the lobby explained that apparent discrepancy. This was part of the property owned by the Meadowfield family since 1875, and that had explained the 'meadow' and 'field' portion of an establishment so far up in the mountains you had to make your entrance and exit by way of helicopter or a single-track steam engine train from the valley below. 

(Actually, on their first visit the helicopter hadn't been a possibility; it was their visit, or at least the events surrounding their visit, that caused that mode of transportation to be added in the intervening months.) Even then, getting from the nearest airport to the small town where that train originated was quite a feat, as they remembered from that journey in pursuit of the lady carrying that microdot.

Caroline Mason was someone they'd remember for a long time, even with the multitude of other women they'd met in their lives. Well, she was pretty hard to forget. Recently widowed, giddy, thoroughly enthralled with the good life she'd so recently inherited from her oil baron husband (and wasn't it just a shame he'd dropped dead after only three months of being married to Caroline!), eager to explore all the possibilities - those possibilities including Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin. They still cringed at just HOW eager she'd been, or how persistent. In fact, Illya had later made a few highly uncomplimentary comments about the death of her husband and the likelihood of his having been lucky to make it to three months, and EXTREMELY lucky not to have made it to four!

"Though if he HAD made it to four months, Napoleon, the only question would be the source of his demise at that point, a heart attack or a self-inflicted shot to the head." No, she hadn't made a friend of the Russian.

Why Thrush would have risked planting a microdot in or on HER cosmetics case, no one ever knew; perhaps it was just that the Thrush agent was running for his life and quickly running out of options as well. He knew quite well what his bosses would do if he let that microdot fall into the hands of the men chasing him. Of course, out of all the possibilities, the agent selected THAT case, all bright pink with tiny black squiggles and sparkly with rhinestones and glitter, and totally unmistakable. Well, surely there weren't TWO of those garrish pieces in that small regional airport! He'd surely have no trouble spotting it later.

Illya had been the one to see the agent stumble into the cart carrying that mound of luggage, had guessed what had transpired, at least once they'd cornered the agent and he'd gloated that "I don't have it, and you don't have it. Guess you might as well let me go!" Of course, that didn't happen, but it was a really good try, and if he'd been dealing with Barney Fife of Mayberry instead of two of Waverly's top agents it might have had some slight chance of success.

A few quick questions had determined that particular cart, already lost in the bowels of the Denver airport, was headed for the village of Langston, with immediate transfer to the Langston-Meadowfield spur, a small private railway. So, as soon as they got the Thrush agent turned over to the local police to be gathered up by another contingent of UNCLE agents, they set out for Langston and purchased tickets on that train. That had taken a little quick talking, since they didn't have advance reservations at the resort at the end of the run, but a judicious bribe and a fast phone call had reserved one of the only remaining spaces at that establishment, "the Premier Suite; I think you will find it enjoyable. Quite expensive, of course. Well, if you're sure. I assume you DO have a credit card?? The deposit is nonrefundable, of course."

{"Well, there goes next month's expense account,"} Napoleon Solo thought to himself ruefully. Last month it had been two new suits, the month before the damages to that Antigua hostelry. Mr. Waverly was NOT going to be pleased!

Luckily for them the train only ran twice a day, and then only if there were passengers waiting, so they had gotten there in time to be on the same train as Caroline Mason. At least they'd considered themselves lucky til she started talking. Now, seated four seats behind the woman who was chattering away non-stop to anyone who would listen, pretend to listen, or who were just unfortunate enough to be with viewing or listening range, they winced. 

"It's not so much that I'm interested in skiing, of course. I mean, all that snow! And I'm sure it has to be dreadfully cold, and I bet it's even wet, and it looks so dangerous! I'm sure I would likely fall down and besides all that heavy clothing would make me look terribly unappealing. No, I'm here for the apres-ski activities." She had giggled tremulously, "I hear they are really QUITE remarkable, you know!"

That high-pitched giggle made Illya (along with more than a few others) shudder. Napoleon discreetly wiggled one finger in the ear closest to her; he was sure she'd set off nerve endings not unlike Professor VanDyke's infernal machine intended to drive a man mad with sound vibrations.

The lady was most disappointed when she checked in and made her initial inquiries. It seemed the rather industrious Gretchen and Geraldo, who had made the 'health spa' portion of the resort an overnight success, had left only the week before to return to Rio de Janeiro. Well, they'd only been biding their time, after all, just until that overly-moralistic Chief of Police in Rio had been ousted. Such an annoying man, so full of judgemental ideas of what constituted 'entertainment'. Gretchen had reassured Geraldo as they'd packed their bags about an hour before the arrest warrant and the local policia arrived there, "the touristas, they LIKE us, liebchen. Soon they will be complaining to the theatres and others, and soon that swine will be packing HIS bags! Why, I hear he is even still faithful to his wife, and they've been married almost a year! How could a man like that ever understand our art??! He might be well enough for the village he came from, but hardly for Rio!!!" 

Well, Rio's loss had been Meadowfield Ski Resort's gain, and in truth, had rather put them on the map. A most discreetly distributed and highly select map, but still . . .

Upon meeting Sven and Olga, a highly professional and depressingly conventional pair who now were in charge of the health spa, and discovering the offerings now included only the services more usual to such establishments, a highly disappointed Mrs. Mason proceeded to look around for something, someone else to fill the void, as you might say.

Her gaze fell upon two men - one with a dark, rather cinematic appeal, the other a slender blond with riveting blue eyes. Well, it only made sense - they seemed to always be together, always rather close to her. And her eager mind, still entranced with what she'd heard of Gretchen and Geraldo, decided the two presented just all kinds of opportunities for a little apres-ski activity not actually on the resort's daily Register of Events.

The two agents grimly took turns, one distracting Mrs. Mason, the other searching for that blasted microdot. They saw each other only on the changing of their 'shifts', or after she retired for the night, and the looks on each of their faces showed their increasing annoyance and frustration. Illya in particular was disturbed by that latest encounter that resulted in him having to comfort two small children and promise restitution as soon as he got back home.

"Napoleon, not only is she disgustingly libidinous, she is an idiot! What did she THINK would happen if she dropped a bowl full of gold fish into a hot tub??! And please, no, I have no intention of explaining what she told me she had THOUGHT would happen! It is just too appalling! Never mind the attitude of the spa attendant upon hearing of the broken glass in the bottom of the tub!"

Napoleon Solo had just raised his brows as he heard that outburst as they passed in the hallway, but he DID make sure to check for unexpected 'guests' at his next encounter with Mrs. Mason.

One embarrassing incident concerning that hot tub and champagne bucket full of ice, one slightly awkward confrontation with management about inappropriate use of the steam room, and a loud wailing insistence from the owner's eight year old twins that "we want our goldfish BACK", and Caroline Mason decided this place was simply no fun at all! She'd departed on the early train, just in time for Illya to replace her cosmetics case after he'd FINALLY located that damned microdot! All those black squiggles, you know! 

They'd intended to catch the next train down the mountain and head home, had even communicated their intentions to Mr. Waverly, when the avalanche hit. Illya still swore that avalanche was set off by Caroline Mason's loud, shrill temper tantrum there at the end when she'd been presented with a supplemental statement of charges. While there was no loss of life, (either in the tantrum or the avalanche) and the train loaded with Caroline Mason and a few others did make it down the mountain safely, it DID leave THEM and the remaining guests rather stranded at the lodge, and since there was no way out, even helicopters being barred from the area by the local authorities for fear of another avalanche, they decided they might as well make the best of it.

Well, the Premier Suite, the only one that Napoleon had been able to book at such short notice (or at least the desk clerk had claimed) was truly luxurious, up to even his standards. So much so, in fact, that he had been quite insistent on remaining there even when the other rooms opened up. The resort had been caught with full freezers and well-stocked pantry, had its own generator, and for time spent at a ski resort and never even looking at a pair of skis, it had been a remarkably agreeable time. 

Of course, Waverly hit the ceiling about the expense reports, but that was only to be expected. The in-room hot tub, the well-equiped spa and workout room, the elaborate room-service, that utterly huge bed with the smooth sheets and warm eiderdown cover and the feather pillows - they'd made amazingly good use of it all. Enough there had been some surprising revelations forthcoming. Enough the personal arrangements, once they'd returned to New York, had been slightly adjusted. Enough they'd promised themselves a repeat visit without the complications of Thrush.

"But without Caroline Mason, if you please, Napoleon. OR the avalanche." 

Napoleon Solo had smiled a slow easy smile, "WHICH avalanche, Illya? You really have to learn to be more specific." 

Marylou Meadowfield watched as the two boarded the train. "Jackie, think the tab from those two and that Mason woman just might pay for that pad we been wanting to put in for a whirly-bird to land. Might just open up a whole new line of traffic. Why, we could be one of those 'destination resorts' I keep reading about in the trade journals. Might be right interesting."

Jackie took a puff off his ancient briar, "could be, Marylou. We bring in someone like those two, Gretchen and Geraldo, that'd bring in even more business."

Marylou firmly shook her head, "but not the kind we want to attract, Jackie. Seems like that's just asking for more hot tub shenanigans, and can't just keep buying new goldfish for the youngins. They get attached, you know? Naw, lets try for something a little quieter. A little classier, like those last two were, at least once that woman took off. Maybe some of that new convention trade that seems to be such an up and coming thing. Just how much trouble could a bunch of businessmen coming together for a little meeting cause?"


	2. Partners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being partners - just what that really meant was something April Dancer was still trying to figure out, along with how to walk the tight-rope of being the first female agent at UNCLE New York. A little expert advice from Lisa Rogers helped some with the latter, but the first was much more challenging. Memories of a long, very educational night with Napoleon Solo, along with the most recent mission in France, bring her a little closer to her goal.

"Open Channel D. April Dancer here. Any word from my partner?"

"No, Miss Dancer, I'm sorry. Nothing since his check-in at Orly Airport Security."

"Read me his report, please, Lauren. Perhaps I'm missing something."

{"Blast the man! He knows better than to go tracking off on his own! Yes, he's the senior partner, but he's far too impetuous for his own good, and one of these days he's going to get in a situation he CAN'T get out of!"}. April Dancer sighed as she listened once again to that slightly cryptic, far TOO cryptic report.

*"Caught sight of a mad bad habit Ted Rabbit. Don't think he caught a glimpse of me. I'm going to see if I can track him back to his rabbit hutch. I'll be in touch."* 

"English," she sighed, out loud this time, "for someone from England, don't you think it possible that he would just speak ENGLISH??"

Despite the possible seriousness, Lauren Davis, currently manning communications for Channel D at UNCLE Headquarters in New York, had to laugh.

"Between the various dialects he pulls, and that dockside one you drop on us every now and again, I have to wonder. And before you ask, I've gone through the last three code books, even the most recent list of persons of interest. There's references to a 'bunny', a 'hare', a 'rabbit-trap', but no Ted Rabbit. As for the 'mad' part, it seems there are just too many of THOSE running around to narrow it down any. And I have no idea what bad habits a rabbit might have."

That finally brought a smile to April's face, "oh, I can think of a few, and I expect Mark can as well, but what it all means in THIS context, I haven't a clue. Well, let me know if you hear anything. I'm headed to Orly to see if I can pick up his trail."

She'd chosen a flashy little red sports car for transport, a convertible. After all, no one knew she was coming, they'd hardly be on the lookout for her, so she might as well enjoy the warm weather. She'd only been working with Mark Slate as her primary partner for a few months, and Mr. Waverly had kept them on pretty routine missions to begin with, mostly in the States with occasional excursions elsewhere. And, she ruefully admitted to herself, if Thrush was anything like the UNCLE agents she'd encountered so far, she was being pretty much discounted as any threat. She intended to change their outlook, but for the time being it was proving to her advantage.

She thought back to the first few missions they'd done together, their first trial partnership. There had been a milk run turned nasty, and they'd both taken some damage. Mr. Waverly had been gruffly complimentary to her, but brusquely admonishing to her partner.

"Really, Mr. Slate. DO try not to bollox things up next time, if you wouldn't mind. We haven't unlimited resources to deal with such antics, you know. We can't have you teaching Miss Dancer how to walk into trouble as easily as you seem to."

She kept her thoughts to herself, (though that wouldn't always be the case); challenging Mr. Waverly was hardly the done thing. Still, berating and belittling Mark didn't seem to be the best way of handling matters. She just didn't believe that was beneficial, and truly Mark had been quite inventive in finding a way to get them out of their predicament.

Well, she was just a junior agent, and surely Mr. Waverly knew best. But Mark was her partner, and she resolved she'd find some way to let him know she appreciated him. After all, that was what partners did, wasn't it? Perhaps once they were out of medical, she would find the best way to do that. 

She rather liked this partner of hers. Oh, nothing untoward, she was much too professional for that and so was he. Still, they seemed to, what was the expression? Oh, yes. They seemed to rub together quite well, and she'd like to continue the association. He seemed to like food almost as much as the Russian agent, Illya Kuryakin. Perhaps she would treat him to a meal at Venara's; she thought that might be quite to his liking. And it turned out it was; indeed it became a favorite spot for them celebrating coming down off a rough assignment.

 

It hadn't been easy, being the first female agent for UNCLE New York. Somehow she was pretty sure the rules being set down for her were somewhat different than for the male agents. Oh, not the official rules, but the unwritten ones, the ones just as important in the overall scheme of things. She'd been given quite a few unbidden lectures, which she mostly ignored, just as she had her father's equally judgemental ones. The two she HAD listened to were lectures, no, conversations in which she'd been given advice, but those both were ones she'd initiated.

One, with Lisa Rogers, who seemed to have her pulse on everything in the organization, which only made sense with her being Mr. Waverly's go-to person, ostensibly his secretary. 

"Getting to know your fellow agents, certainly. That is necessary, may help save your life or theirs. Dating your fellow agents, even worse, sleeping with them? Highly inadvisable. Sleeping with whoever might end up being your partner? As close to suicide as you can come without pulling a trigger on yourself, Miss. Dancer."

April had looked skeptical, not that she had intention of doing any of that anyway. She had joined UNCLE to do a job, accomplish something worthwhile. 

"And you're saying agents never date, never . . .? Never? I find that somewhat difficult to believe, Miss Rogers."

Lisa Rogers' face was bland, giving away nothing of what she might have been thinking, her eyes doing an equally good job. "Outside, certainly. Among the other departments, yes, quite frequently. But other AGENTS? We HAVE no other female agents, Miss Dancer. It would hardly be likely, don't you agree?"

There had been a discreet warning there, one April caught immediately. 

"Of course, Miss Rogers. I misspoke. How foolish of me."

SHE wasn't that naive, was sure Miss Rogers wasn't either, but obviously it was something not to be discussed.

Her other conversation had been with Napoleon Solo when she'd been given the usual new-agent milk run with him as part of her training. The night was sultry, they were in a car parked in an out of the way spot where they could not be seen but where they had a clear view of a corner apartment in a rather ritzy part of town. They'd covered all manner of other subjects and she had been building up her nerve to ask a very important question. They were watching for any movement from Mr. Beaumont, possible Thrush contact, and she'd finally brought up the subject of partners, and what it really meant to be part of a successful partnership. Well, if she was to ask anyone, surely it was best to ask a member of the most successful teams around. She'd been lucky; Napoleon had taken an avuncular interest in her and told her all the things her instructors, with their cold academic take on the subject, hadn't been able to tell her.

"Oh, I know what they teach in training. And everything they teach you is true, April, all that IS necessary. The knowing each other's strengths and weaknesses, the memorizing of the little 'tells' each of us have, knowing which defensive or offensive moves they are likely to make in a given situation."

"The problem is, what they teach you is as true for an inferior partnership as it is for a truly outstanding one. It's the other things, the things they DON'T teach you that make all the difference. I can assure you of that; as they will tell you at Headquarters, I went through a goodly number of partners before Illya and I teamed up. I've worked with any number of other agents on a short-term basis, as well; we all have to do that as the circumstances dictate. But with a partner, a real partner, that is something different. I'm not even sure how to describe what it is, much less how you get there, but I'll try my best."

"It's when you know your partner is pushing himself too far and you need to step in; when you know whether that spark of interest in an alluring figure is real or feigned. When you get that uneasy feeling and know they're in trouble, even though they made the last check-in and there was no hint of danger in their report. It's when he can almost seem to read your mind, and you can read his. There's a shared warmth that gets you through long cold nights, a cool comfort that leads you home through blistering sands; it's knowing you won't be abandoned or, if it all goes wrong, forgotten."

"It's when Thrush tries to ring in a double on you, and you notice the absence of the slight roughening on the side of his hand from your last rough and tumble experience, or the lack of interest when his favorite music is next on the bill at the symphony, the way his eyes fail to light up when you pass a restaurant and certain spices enliven the air - when you know your real partner would have reacted quite differently."

She'd looked at him, questioningly. "It sounds, I don't know, intimate somehow."

Napoleon's eyes had been kind, but still remote.

"Oh, it is, quite. Not in the usual application of the word, perhaps, but in other ways, certainly. It's when your partner is hurt, and you realize you'd have preferred it had been you on the other end of that beating or the knife or the bullet. It's when Medical tells you to go home, there's no need for you to be there, waiting, and you find yourself biting your tongue to keep from lashing out at them for not understanding that - Yes, there IS a need, for you to be there, for him to know that you're there; that if the situation was reversed, HE'D be there waiting."

"And you and Mr. Kuryakin, Illya, have that kind of partnership."

It hadn't been a question; there had been too much honesty in that monologue for it to be otherwise. She added, "it sounds . . ." then paused, searching for another word besides 'intimate', which she was increasingly hesitant about using somehow. She tried again, "it sounds . . . painful." Perhaps that wasn't exactly right, but she had a feeling it was pretty darn close.

He was silent, leaning forward to check that upstairs window once again. 

"Painful. Yes, it can be. But it's also rewarding. Comforting. Enriching. There are a great many words that would apply, April. I imagine just which words would depend on you and your partner; I imagine the words are different for each successful pair, though there would be some overlap, I'm sure."

She'd thought over all he'd said, and told him, "I hope I have the same kind of partnership you and Illya have. I can't imagine anything better."

He'd smiled at her then, not that usual 'aren't I just too gorgeous for words' smile he used to such advantage. No, this was a real smile, perhaps showing her the real man under the image.

"I hope you do too, April, I really do."

Then Mr. Beaumont had decided to make his move, and the game was afoot, and their conversation was at an end.

But she'd never forgotten. While she'd been paired with various other agents on various assignments, only with Mark Slate had there been any hint of what Napoleon Solo had described. And through the months, that hint had steadily turned to a realization that they were, indeed, building toward that kind of partnership she'd heard about, the kind of partnership she knew she wanted, needed.

 

Now, as she sped along the narrow road, she thought about that last message.

"Mad bad habit Ted Rabbit. Rabbit hole, no, it was rabbit hutch. Mark, sometimes you could be just a little less cryptic, you know! I know as your partner I'm supposed to be able to read your mind, but I'm not there just yet!"

She briefly considered Theodora O'Hare, but thought that was rather too obvious. Besides Mark HAD specified 'he'. Still, it was worth a thought or two. 

A call back to Central confirmed Theodora O'Hare, one April and Mark HAD indeed called 'mad' once or twice (along with a few other things), was currently doing time in an Argentine prison for trying to poison one of the local aristos because he'd laughed at her hat depicting the fall of Rome. Theodora adored her outlandish hats, and felt the only proper response to any of her selection was an equal degree of adoration. They didn't always have that effect, and she tended to get a trifle miffed when that happened. It seems the tiny Nero figure released a poison gas of some intensity when triggered, or rather his violin did.

 

Mark had originally beguiled his way into Miss O'Hare's inner circle by pretending to almost faint with sheer awe at that cartwheel hat of grass green ruched silk, with its tiny cottage and fruit trees and a white rail fence, enhanced by the numerous small porcelain figures depicting an entire pastoral scene. "Simply too utterly utterly, you know, darling! Far too marvelous for words!"

April had to admit that while it wasn't her own fashion ideal, it had been most ingeniously made, especially when it turned out the tiny animals and trees each were some sort of a weapon, either a smoke bomb or explosive or light flash or something similar. She herself had fallen victim to a small sheep that held some kind of sleeping gas.

Mark had escaped harm, but more because Miss O'Hare thought him much too much like her hats, just too, too adorable to damage unless absolutely necessary. April rather thought the eccentric villainess had OTHER plans for her partner, ones she wasn't sure Mark would be particularly interested in, but she wasn't quite positive of that. He had had a certain gleam in his eye that wasn't put there by that light flash from the apple tree exploding. The successful conclusion of that assignment meant another dinner at Venara's, warm with laughter and companionship.

It was still quite a ways before reaching Orly when she knew, just KNEW.

"Blast you, Mark! Of course! Harry Priestly!"

She pulled off the road and pulled out her communicator.

"Open Channel D. April Dancer here."

"Hello, Miss Dancer. Genevieve here. How may I help you?"

"I need the most recent known location of Harry Priestly and any information we have about his recent activities. And patch me through to Mr. Waverly while you are looking all that up, will you?"

 

"Yes, Mr. Waverly, I know it's a long shot, but it occurred to me. Mr. Slate and I were discussing him not so long ago. It seems Mr. Slate found his manner of dress rather off, for one of the aristocracy."

"I, Miss Dancer, consider Mr. SLATE'S manner of dress rather off, as well. What does that have to do with Mr. Slate's message?"

"Don't you see, sir? It wasn't mad bad habit Ted Rabbit. It was mad bad-habited Rabbit. Habit, as in a cassock. When we saw him last, Mr. Priestly was wearing a black canvas duster; we remarked it looked quite like an odd sort of religious garment, but very poorly proportioned."

"Ah, yes, a habit, a cassock - as related to a priest. Therefore your assumption of Priestly. And I presume you consider the rabbit part of the message a reference to 'hare' or to carry it further 'Harry'. Yes, quite clever. Perhaps a little too clever for efficiency, but we'll have to discuss that with Mr. Slate once you locate and retrieve him. Do you require assistance?"

"Not at this time, sir."

"DO let us know if that should change, Miss Dancer. Waverly out."

He cut the connection, rubbed his chin and remarked to Miss Rogers.

"Rather interesting, how she managed to make sense of that message. It would appear the experiment of placing those two youngsters together might just prove successful after all."

"Yes, Mr. Waverly," Lisa Rogers replied. 

Both of those two, Slate and Dancer, grated on her nerves somewhat and she wondered about pairing them instead of giving each of them to a more sober, more experienced agent, but Mr. Waverly did have a knack for determining who would and would not work well together. Well, his pairing of Napoleon and Illya was a case in point; odds in the cafeteria had been astronomical against that lasting for more than a month. She wasn't sure how she felt about the Slate/Dancer pairing, but only time would tell. That is, if the two of them survived long enough for that.

Harry Priestly was more than a little put out when April Dancer showed up in his solar. Fair enough. She'd taken one good look around and was more than a little displeased herself. Snatching the key from the leather bench, she cautiously unfastened her partner from where he hung from those chains. He was able to stand, but just barely.

A sudden two steps forward by the bare chested Harry Priestly drew her full attention back to the agile man now shifting his balance forward just a trifle. Her gun, held in a remarkably steady hand, focused on him immediately.

"Ah, ah, Mr. Priestly. Please don't do anything foolish. I am rather annoyed with you, you see." 

Mark was trying to get his breathing and his balance and his vision somewhat back to normal, which wasn't easy considering the past few hours. Still, even making allowances for his less than ideal condition, there was something more than a little off in April's voice, in her eyes. He DID hope she hadn't been too badly injured. He could see evidence that she'd encountered Priestly's bully boys on her way in, from the ripped dress and smudges and tangled hair, along with the way she was holding the arm that was NOT handling that gun.

"My dear young lady, we were just starting to get reacquainted, he and I. It is hardly kind of you to interrupt; we were barely even getting to the really good parts, you know. I'm sure your Mr. Slate would agree, if he could actually focus long enough to speak. That formula, well, it does tend to affect the senses, in so many ways."

April was quite sure she didn't like Mr. Priestly, she didn't like that odd look in her partner's glazed blue eyes, and she didn't like the bloodstains or the open wounds or that whip in the older man's hand. She wasn't moving all that easily herself; Priestly's minions had outnumbered her and she'd taken some damage in the process of winning her way to the room where she'd found her partner handcuffed to that odd device.

When she spotted that tiny tell-tale tightening of their opponent's wrist muscles, she didn't hesitate or flinch. She fired and Priestly went down hard. 

Moving Mark slightly so he could brace himself on the wall, she cautiously moved in to confirm what she already really knew. She stood up, put her arm around Mark's waist.

"Come along, partner mine; I've a car just down the way. I think a little mopping up is in order. How DO you get yourself in these situations, darling? You know Mr. Waverly is going to scold," she twitted him gently.

He blinked, looking from her to the still figure on the floor and back again. 

"Have to wait for cleanup, April; if we leave now, he and all his people will be gone . . ."

He frowned, looked at that still figure once again. There was just something so permanent about the position of that body.

"April?"

"I'm afraid my aim was a trifle off, darling. Even a sleep dart can be fatal if you accidentally hit the wrong spot. Come now, it can't be helped, and some of the others just MIGHT wake up."

There was something about her eyes, but Mark had to admit he wasn't seeing too clearly at the moment. 

"Talk about the Old Man scolding! He's going to make you take another round on the firing course, April."

"Well, I suppose that wouldn't be such a bad idea. I won ever so much extra spending money the last time; amazing how a nice wager tends to help me focus. Certainly likely to net more than enough for another nice little dinner at Venara's. Perhaps we'll invite Napoleon and Illya to join us if they are in town. I rather owe them a favor."

They were moving to the door and out, Mark holding back at the exit, turning just one last time to look, to wonder, then to let his partner lead him, half supporting him, into the warm sunshine, toward the car, toward home.


	3. Vacation Interrupted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They'd earned some time off and had planned the perfect little getaway, a return visit to Meadowfield Ski Resort in Colorado. Ah, well, the best laid plans!

"The med unit. Are they okay? Well, that's good. Oh, Geneva? Of course, Mr. Waverly, if you really think . . . Yes, of course, there is no problem at all; we will postpone our time off. No, I'm sure there will be no problem getting the plane reservations switched; I know someone at the airlines. Yes, I know Mrs. Waverly prefers a window seat and a gin gimlet. I'll see to everything, sir."

Napoleon was disappointed that he and Illya had been tapped as the escorts for the Waverlys on their joint trip to Geneva. Mark Slate and April Dancer had been initially scheduled, but it seems a run-in with Thrush had left those two young people in the medical wing for awhile. 

Disappointed he might have been, still he took care not to show it, at least not to Mr. Waverly or anyone else other than Illya. It was hardly professional to put personal activities ahead of the job. Illya was disappointed as well, but then he rarely showed how he felt, at least not around anyone other than Napoleon. However they really felt about having to set their own plans aside, they'd not discuss that til they got back to Napoleon's apartment.

Still, they'd looked forward to this short getaway; it had been a rough few months and they could use a break. They'd made plans to visit that little ski resort where they'd spent such a memorable few days the prior year in search of that missing microdot. He'd made the reservations only last week, asked for a projected weather report, and heard the resigned note of apprehension in the desk clerk's voice.

"We are hopeful, of course, but unfortunately the weather predictors are saying the snowfall may hold off for another few weeks, Mr. Solo."

If Napoleon's enthusiastic, "that sounds just fine; we'll just hope for the best," puzzled the man, he shrugged, took the reservation and hung up the phone.

Turning to Louise who was sharing the shift, he'd just shook his head, "seems like he was HAPPY about the bad weather report! Most everyone else has decided not to come, what with probably not being able to get out on the slopes! But HE'S happy to make reservations AND to put down the full deposit! And not just the one room, but two, although the other is one of the economy versions. Still, his is the Premier Suite and you know how much THAT costs! Spending all that when the snow's likely not to be here? I don't get it!"

Louise just shrugged, "don't know why he'd be coming to a ski resort if not to ski, but it takes all kinds, Joey, you know that as well as I. At least we have his credit card number, so we're covered. The 50% deposit is non-refundable, anyway." But she agreed, it really made no sense.

Well, that last group that came all the way across three states just to have a twenty-four hour round-the-clock meeting in the big room with the three huge fireplaces and the mounted heads and even a few full-sized trophies, that had made no sense either. Those drum beats and chants had disturbed the other guests, the extremely odd demands on the kitchens and the catering staff had turned more than a few heads, two of the staff had walked out with a hurried "you just don't PAY me enough for that!", and the carpets had to shampoo'd twice.

Louise and Joey had helped clean up after the group left, and a jolly time that had been! Getting those little paper party hats with the occult symbols down off the stuffed moose heads had been bad enough, them seemingly having been attached with some sort of powerful glue; in addition, the taxidermist had to be called in to repair what looked like arrow and dart holes in several of the collection, but what they'd found on the black bear, well!!! 

The management had sent a supplemental statement (quite substantial), explaining the additional charges that were made to the covering credit card, along with an invitation to come back, of course, (mandatory when the final tariff exceeded five figures), but with a request for an 'advance notice, more detailed perhaps, of your needs and desires so that we might better serve your needs.' There was a discreet note on their file, "if they call to request another booking, be sure to politely and most regretfully inform them that we are booked up!!!! If they insist, require an upfront non-refundable deposit of at least six figures!"

 

"We can rebook when we get back," Illya had tried to console him, taking off his jacket and tie, draping them over the back of a chair. "We are merely postponing our small vacation, not cancelling it."

Napoleon had given a rueful look at his partner, "yes, although our deposit was nonrefundable. But by the time we get there, the snow will probably have arrived, and it's going to look decidedly odd if we don't get out there and ski, morning to night."

Illya had cast him a slightly shy smile, "but you love to ski, Napoleon," getting that boyish grin in reply. Napoleon's jacket had been hung carefully in the closet, his tie now on the dresser along with his cuff links.

"Well, if it's a choice between skiing down a mountain slope all day and spending the hours alone with you in a luxurious resort suite, one complete with spa sized whirlpool and a super-king-sized bed and a well-stocked bar and gourmet room service, well, I know which I'd choose."

Illya had frowned sternly, though appreciating the implied compliment. "YOU get the luxurious suite with the whirlpool and the decadent oversized bed, I notice; I, on the other hand, get the end room next to the elevator with a shower and a twin bed!"

Napoleon let that grin spread, "oh, and were you intending to spend any TIME in that room, partner mine?? That room OR that bed???"

"Perhaps not, but it's the principle of the thing, you know," getting a pillow tossed at his head in response. The pillow fight that ensued would have been an eye-opened to their fellow U.N.C.L.E. members, as well as all that followed.


	4. Mr and Mrs Waverly Remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander Waverly remembers 1944 quite well, as does Mrs. Waverly, including a little about Colonel Robert Hogan and his Heroes and even more about Craig Garrison and his team. In Geneva, accompanied by Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin, they do a little separate reminiscing. Interesting that we, the reader, end up knowing far more than our intrepid agents, about those days gone past, and perhaps how those memories affected more recent events. (Or at least we do after the final chapter '1944'.)

They'd left New York together, the Waverlys sitting together, Illya in a seat slightly ahead and to the far side, Napoleon to the rear but with an excellent view of the couple they were guarding. Once they reached Geneva, however, they'd had to split up, Illya and Mrs. Waverly (Mirian Walker Waverly, to be precise), headed to the conference where she'd be speaking to a group of women about health issues in under-developed nations. Napoleon would be at Mr. Waverly's side as he headed into his own meeting with European heads of state to discuss rather different matters. 

The earlier quick sighting at the airport of a slender blond man, quite familiar in appearance to all four of them, probably had something to do with the way the conversations went later that night. It certainly had something to do with the way both U.N.C.L.E. agents surreptitiously checked their weapons, moved a little closer to the Waverlys.

Sam Travers - Samuel Craig Garrison Travers, adoptive nephew to Craig Garrison, probably cousin or nephew or some such to both Goniff Grainer and the man once known as Mr. Ecks - never slowed down, never glanced at any of the four. He had his own business to deal with, had no reason to be paying any special attention to the group from U.N.C.L.E. He disappeared into the crowd, leaving only an uneasy feeling behind him. Well, an uneasy feeling on the part of three of the group; who knows what was behind that slightly odd look on Mrs. Waverly's face.

They'd planned to meet later, the Waverlys and their escorts, but a sudden storm had delayed transportation, and they found themselves rather marooned at two different locations. It was perhaps understandable that they turned to conversation to amuse themselves; it was rather a coincidence that their conversations took them along similar routes. Or perhaps it WAS that earlier sighting that caused the conversation to take that track.

Napoleon took the opportunity to urge Mr. Waverly in the direction of the odd bits of conversation from that Mr. Garrison who'd arrived, along with a woman and that man that looked far too much like Mr. Ecks for anyone's comfort. (Well, there was an uncomfortable resemblance between the supposedly-deceased Mr. Ecks and that older boy as well.)

It turned out there were indeed two stories, one involving two men the younger boy and girl had claimed as their 'fathers', the other involving Garrison and the man seemingly called Goniff. Mr. Waverly was rather reserved in both his demeanor and his words, but Napoleon could easily tell those had been harrowing times.

"And Mrs. Waverly was with you both times, sir?" he'd asked.

"What? Oh, no, Miriam was only there for the mission where we encountered Lieutenant Garrison and his men. Odd, that, you know," the older man frowned, puffing at his pipe slowly.

"Miriam seemed to have developed an odd sort of affection for their pickpocket, as you may have noticed from his words. I never understood that; oh, likeable enough, I suppose, but rather too chatty and not overly bright. At least, that's what I thought at the time, though I may have been mistaken. Somehow, I find that impression rather at odds with his continued connection with Mr. Garrison and the O'Donnell woman. Oh, that's what he was to their team, the blond man in the office, Goniff, the one who bore such a striking resemblance to your Mr. Ecks - their pickpocket. Garrison was quite emphatic about his talents, said he was the best in his field, and Miriam said her observation certainly bore that out. There was Garrison and four others, including the pickpocket - remarkably talented, all of them; I was quite impressed. Odd background, of course, and there were those in London who were most uneasy about them, but I found them quite reliable to work with. I was relieved to hear they had all survived. Two of them, their safecracker and their driver had been severely wounded during the exit, protecting us."

Still, there was a bit of uneasiness in Waverly's face as he remembered the past. 

"Now, the other mission, that one led my team into contact with a unit still listed under the 'official secrets act'. Miriam sat that one out, a spot of trouble on a prior mission, you understand. Gloria Ross was on that mission instead. They were another most unusual group of men, the ones we encountered. That there was a close connection between the two groups of men, however, as we discovered in my office, that I found most unexpected, I must admit."

"Those men, in the second group, they were also most talented, of course. One of the men young Jamie claimed as father was another Cockney pickpocket, bragged about his 'magic fingers', as I recall. The other was an explosives expert, a most unusual young man as I recall. There were various others, but it was those two we had the most contact with. And the leader was certainly one of a kind; well, he'd have to be to run that kind of operation. Made General, after the war. Died most unexpectedly a few years ago, heart attack I believe."

"Miss Ross was quite taken with him, their leader. Far too much so, it would seem; it led to, well, consequences, if you know what I mean. She ended up sitting out the rest of the war, and just before peace was declared, she and the child were killed in a bombing raid. Miriam was appalled at the man's reaction when she'd finally gotten permission to let him know. She said he didn't seem to remember Gloria more than slightly, and was quite dismissive in his manner, seemed to discount the entire possibility of the child having been his, or at least attach any importance to the possibility or to their deaths. Seemed totally detached, acting like it had been a nuisance, perhaps an imposition, for her to have even bothered him with the news. Well, perhaps she misread him, perhaps he just wasn't one for showing his emotions easily."

"Still, she was quite upset over the whole matter as I recall. Ran into him at some social function or other after the war, and Miriam refused an offer from our host to introduce him. In fact, my wife insisted on leaving as soon as she heard his name; really not like her at all. Was rather inconvenient, of course, but my wife, well, when she gets that look in her eye, it's really best to go along. Surprisingly nasty temper at times. Amazing, really, as well as I've always thought I knew her, the number of times she's surprised me totally." Waverly got a rather odd look on his face, one expressing perhaps something other than displeasure, perhaps more one of fond remembering.

"Well, all that aside, I never did feel any of them got quite the recognition and thanks they deserved, the men of those units. Not the sort for our organization, of course, although their skills would have been most useful. No, rather too independent, you know, or perhaps 'interdependent' would be a better word. Though I did toy, only for a brief moment, of seeing how Julius Cutter would have reacted to those four youngsters."

They shared a rueful laugh, "the younger girl would probably have suggested a bout on the mats, no holds barred, and the others stood back and watched!"

"Yes, well, presumably Mr. Cutter had his medical insurance fully paid up. It might have been quite enlightening."

They talked into the night, and Napoleon had to admit, from what Mr. Waverly was saying, both groups DID sound like rather extraordinary men. 

He did find it rather quaint, that a gentleman like Alexander Waverly would find that breezy compliment so discommoding, especially coming from someone as unlikely to have impressed the lady as that cheeky little Cockney pickpocket. He couldn't imagine any degree of affection there, except of the most casual nature. He decided not to mention that, again circling back to the subject of those four youngsters who had so confounded the resources of UNCLE that day.

"Perhaps that explains the children, though. They were rather unique, you know. Far more talented in areas you'd hardly expect children that age to be. Get it from their fathers, I'd assume, though the way they even discussed that issue seemed a trifle strange."

Waverly took a few more puffs. "Well, I'm sure that is part of the explanation, Mr. Solo, their fathers' influence, although I am sure there is quite a bit more to it. It's probably best we don't know all the particulars." 

Alexander Waverly had some degree of knowledge regarding the woman who'd accompanied Garrison and that pickpocket to his office, enough to know when not to pry. Anyway, he doubted the woman Ruena, known as The Grandmother of Clan O'Donnell, would tell him any of the details, even if he asked over their next game of chess. Stubborn female she was and always had been; never a beautiful woman, yet there had always been something about her, as there had been about her predecessor. 

{"Remarkable woman, that. Lived to be one hundred and six, I believe, still giving orders right to the end."} He smiled at his own fond memories, tamped down his pipe, and decided it was time for bed.

 

****

Illya and Mrs. Waverly had enjoyed a congenial dinner together and when the conversation started to drag, he'd hesitantly brought up the subject of their unexpected guests to Mr. Waverly's office. He had remembered that last bit of conversation from the man who'd told them so cheerfully, "just call me Goniff, mates." 

"He appeared to remember you quite fondly, Mrs. Waverly, if I understood his compliment correctly. I admit Cockney seems almost like a foreign language at times, other than English, I mean." 

She'd smiled, "yes, I imagine it does. And the one child looked like him?"

"Oh, most certainly, the oldest boy, though with green eyes instead of blue; the girls looked like the redhaired woman who'd accompanied him and Lieutenant Garrison. I believe the woman's name was Meghada."

"Ah, yes, his Meghada. I would imagine so. He told me quite a lot about her, seemed to care for her a great deal. I'm pleased to know they are still together. I believe she is a rather lucky woman; well, I always thought HE was prodigiously lucky himself. I AM a little surprised to hear that Lieutenant Garrison was with them. How interesting." That smile was one Illya couldn't quite put a label on; it had a certain Mona Lisa quality about it.

Illya refrained from explaining just how MUCH the former Lieutenant Garrison appeared to be 'with' them; it just wasn't a subject he felt comfortable addressing with a dignified lady like Mrs. Waverly.

Illya found it intriguing that Mrs. Waverly, Miriam Walker Waverly, seemed to have developed a rather charming blush at the remembering that harrowing time. It would seem to him that her tale, one of danger and near death during World War II France was certainly nothing to blush about. It was an exciting tale, to be sure, but somehow he had to wonder what she was NOT saying about that adventure. He would never know, and really, as it turned out, there was not a great deal she'd left unsaid, just a brief episode of a slightly personal nature. Well, two episodes, actually.


	5. 1944

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some memories are meant to be shared. Others are meant to be kept to yourself, savored as you would the memory of a cold night and the mulled wine that kept you warm, hot, rich, and intense with spice and flavor.

Miriam Walker, the sole female member of Andrew Billings' team on that little romp around France, had accompanied Goniff on his first part of the mission. His sticky fingers were essential, no one else in either group could have handled the tasks he was set to work on, but there was no way he could present himself as German, or French, or Italian or anything other than what he was, English. She, on the other hand, spoke all three languages like a native, and hopefully could talk them through any difficulties. And since all the other men who could have taken that role were otherwise occupied, she'd been tapped for the job. Their part of the job went off without a hitch. In fact, she'd been most impressed with the perky Cockney's flawless performance.

They'd waited in the small cave where they were to meet the others. First to return were Casino and Chief, with Billings (real name Alexander Waverly, that being a name he would not resume until after the war), Actor, and one of Billings' two men next. Garrison and the other man from the other team were still out there, but they'd not planned on being back for another few hours, so there was no cause for alarm.

Billings had taken the opportunity to talk for awhile with Miriam, but it was just that, a quiet chat in the corner between the older, totally serious leader and the younger woman, too low for anyone to hear, but nothing that bespoke of anything overly personal either.

"I kinda thought she was his girl, but maybe I was wrong; you'd not think it now," Casino said, watching them, regretting not having made a move earlier, when he'd had the opportunity, if he'd been wrong about the relationship. Miriam was a very attractive woman, maybe in her mid-thirties, a good number of years younger than Billings it would seem, and while not a chesty blonde, well, Casino had widely diversified tastes.

"She is, Casino, or so I understand. Perhaps it is that they are both English. They are somewhat less demonstrative, more restrained than you or I."

Casino shook his head, "yeah, well, the little Limey's English, and I aint seen a lot of restraint between him and Meghada! Hell, any more 'demonstrative', we'd have to go around wearing blindfolds!"

Actor sighed, "yes, well, Goniff is one type of English; I believe Andrew Billings, or whatever his real name is, and Miriam Walker are the OTHER type of English, and I would imagine the kind of interaction we've seen with Goniff and Meghada would shock them both thoroughly."

Billings and his man took first watch, although Actor suggested he would be glad to do so.

"Miss Walker needs to rest; we have prepared a place in that smaller cave," nodding to an area at the rear of where they were all gathered. "Though she should not be left alone, certainly. These caves can be a trifle unnerving. Perhaps you and your lady might wish to spend a few hours in each other's company; I imagine the opportunities are not easy to come by." 

But Billings was adamant that he would take first watch.

"This was my mission, my responsibility." The stern look was one that would only grow in intensity and depth with age, was a foreshadowing of the face his people at the New York offices of the U.N.C.L.E would accept as having always been his. Meeting up with Garrison and his team in that mad dash from Marseilles had proved fortunate, allowing both teams to accomplish their mission and depart safely. Well, the first part of their mission, anyway. Still, although he had heard about Garrison and his Gorillas, he'd not worked with them before, and was therefore being particularly cautious.

He had watched Casino's interested looks at Miriam, though, and took into account Actor's smooth sophistication that had seemed to impress the young woman considerably, and seemed more than a little relieved when Goniff cheerily offered, "don't worry, mate. I'll keep a good eye on the lady. Never a worry!"

Considering Billings wasn't all that eager to put Michaels, his own man back there with Miriam, either, that sounded like a viable offer. Michaels was reliable in many ways, but not with women. 

Having heard probably more from the chattery pickpocket than he'd ever wanted to hear about Goniff's girl back home, her red hair, her smile, her temper, her fine hand in the kitchen, and much more, along with taking into account that innocuous smile and the vague look in those hazy blue eyes, Billings felt quite comfortable with that arrangement. As talented the man undoubtedly was in his own area, a threat he clearly was not. 

Comfortable with the arrangements, he went out to stand watch. Their day would come, his and Miriam's, if they both survived. Right now there were other things, less personal things to be concerned with. Miriam wasn't quite so at ease, so happy with his position on the matter, but she'd come around. {"Stiff upper lip, man! Hold to the line!"}. Somehow the usual maxims didn't seem quite so useful to his resolve, but they would have to do.

Now, in the small antechamber to the back of the main cave, sitting on a couple of blankets that did little to soften the floor but did keep a little of the chill away, they talked quietly about nothing in particular. He saw her shiver, and moved to pull her closer, opening his jacket to pull her closer to his warmth.

"It'll be warmer this way, right?" and she had to admit his body heat was enticing, as was his cheerful good humor.

"Yes, it is. I'm not sure I'm ever going to get feeling back in my toes, though. I'm sure an ice cube would be warmer," she said.

Now, he sat beside her, one arm close around her shoulders, held her against the cold, against the night, against the fear and worry and all else. She was starting to feel comfortable with him, perhaps too comfortable. When he turned onto one hip, pulled her closer, adjusting her to spoon in front of him, wrapping his arms around her, pulling one blanket over and around them, she didn't protest. He just felt too warm, too good for her to even consider that. She thought she just might survive after all. 

Still, there were the proprieties. She had her Alexander, going by the name of Andrew Billings, and Goniff had his Meghada back home, the one he'd told her so much about, there were all those men in the next room, er, next cave, over.

"You said you had a girl at home?" she asked, not sure if she was reminding him, reminding herself, or just making conversation. The warm companionable understanding chuckle was somehow not quite what she was expecting, made her smile just a little in return.

"My 'Gaida, yes, she's mine, just like I'm 'ers, though she's more of what they call a Dragon. Last one I 'eard refer to her as a 'girl' ended up eating mud, if I remember it right. Last to call 'er a 'lady' ended up worse. Now, this 'ere is one of 'er favorite ways to relax, me 'olding 'er like this, you know. Not the MOST favorite, acourse, nowhere near that, but one of the top twenty or so."

"Well, your 'dragon', what would she say if she saw you holding ME like this?" she gently teased, somehow knowing she had nothing to fear from this man, not like Michaels of whom she was justifiably wary, but wondering just what he had in mind.

"My 'Gaida? She'd say I'm gonna pay for it, one way or another, so I better do it right and make it worthwhile, as long as I keep it at this. She'd also say I shouldn't just let you sit 'ere shaking to pieces and not able to feel your toes. She'd be telling YOU that I know w'at I'm doing, well enough, and you should relax and just enjoy w'at you're not likely to get a sample of again. See, my 'Gaida might be willing to make exceptions for rough times like these, but not as a general thing, you understand; likes me to keep meself pretty much to 'er and . . . Well, to 'erself."

Miriam had to wonder just a bit about that odd pause, but found herself distracted by those talented hands drifting, exploring, warming her frozen body.

"She'd also say if your bloke aint willing to step up to the bat, thinks standing watch is more important than keeping you warm, especially when there are others to stand watch in 'is stead, then you need to 'ave yourself a good sitdown with 'im w'en you get back 'ome, explain a few things. Seems 'e's a little like the Lieutenant, sometimes gets so involved in fighting the war, 'e forgets w'at we're fighting the ruddy war FOR! Both likely need reminding sometimes. And did I mention, she'd say for you to relax and let me get you all nice and warm. Right 'andy at that, I am, likely none better."

She'd snorted at that. 

"Oh, you think highly of yourself, I can see!" 

Her voice was teasing, but his answer was serious, enough she turned to look over her shoulder at him in the dim light. There was a puzzled, thoughtful frown on his face as he thought that over, then firmly shook his head.

"No, never 'ave done that. But for some reason, SHE does, and since she's loads smarter than me, I guess I can't make quarrel with w'at she says."

She snorted again, turned her head to the front and wriggled just a little to get more comfortable. She felt him shift positions and grinned just a little. It seemed her getting a little MORE comfortable had caused him to get just a little, maybe quite a bit, less comfortable. 

Alexander would probably be appalled, but it had been so long since HE had held her like this, always saying it was the wrong time, duty came first. Sometimes she had the feeling time was going to run out for them before it ever BECAME the RIGHT time, the time for THEM to become important to him.

Then, the balance changed and she inhaled quickly and shivered from something other than the cold. Soon she came to the realization that Alexander had NEVER held her like this, never touched her like this, never had hands quite this warm, quite this knowing, quite this . . .. 

She whimpered into the darkness, feeling the heat rise and start to engulf her.

A warm whisper in her ear, "easy, pretty lady, relax, breathe, nice and easy now." 

Well, that might be fine for him, she thought somewhat crossly, maybe he had the lungs for it, but she was pretty sure all the air in the cave was far too thick for her to breathe. Even panting the way she was didn't seem to help all that much. Finally, arching, turning her head to bury her face, along with her outcry, in his shoulder, she found her frantic gasps were finally bringing air into her starved lungs. 

She stayed there, in his arms, while her breathing slowed and those last residual shivers faded. He chuckled and folded the blanket more securely around her.

She lifted her head cautiously, looked at him. "Goniff?" She wasn't sure what she was asking, what she wanted him to say.

She was sure she should have hit him for the sheer smug self-satisfaction in his voice when he told her, "see, just like I said, nice and warm all over, right?" 

Any indignation, any apprehension she might have felt was lost in the truth of that statement, in the sheer cheerful kindness in his voice, in his warm hug. Instead she let her giggles be drowned in his jacket, "yes, nice and warm all over." She was sure she was pink all the way to the ends of those formerly frozen toes. She relaxed and slept, safe and secure and comfortable. 

She started to wake, certainly with a smile on her face, and thinking herself alone again, whispered to herself, still half-asleep. "I wonder if it would be proper to send his Meghada a note thanking her for the loan. No, probably not, but I know one thing . She's one lucky woman if this is only one of the top twenty! Though I have more than a little curiosity about what the other nineteen might involve."

That little snort of amusement told her that no, she wasn't still asleep, she wasn't alone, and yes, Goniff had probably heard every word of that. She knew for sure when he hugged her one last time and whispered in return, "well, things settle down a bit, we'll see if we can't just arrange a little sit-down, ei? My 'Gaida, she's got a right good way with words, writes songs, you know, even got a book started. Expect she'll be able to explain everything just fine. Might give you a few ideas for dealing with your Andrew."

 

They'd emerged in time to join the discussion. Billings was worried about the next phase of the job, which called for slight of hand even beyond what had been needed before, but for which Goniff's lack of linguistic skills would prove a drawback, but Garrison was reassuring him. 

"Goniff may have his shortcomings, Billings, but he's got the best hands in the business. I'll take up the slack on the conversation." 

In the dim light, no one noticed the slender Englishman's slightly sly grin, or the pink flush on Miriam Walker's face. Garrison had turned to the young woman who'd accompanied Goniff on his assignment, picking a pocket, then snatching a key ring with never so much as a sound, transferring that incriminating envelope to substitute for the one Garrison had needed so badly.

"Well, you've seen him in action, Miss Walker. Don't you agree?" 

Chief was, luckily, the only one who noticed that sly grin grow to one he recognized from other times, times when the little pickpocket had been very, very industrious in ways Garrison would NOT have approved. Usually that smile involved small glittery objects, but somehow Chief thought this time it might be somewhat different.

Miriam Walker cleared her throat awkwardly, but then had to admit, "well, yes, I must agree, Andrew. I believe we can place total reliance in him. In fact, I am sure Lieutenant Garrison is right - I rather doubt there IS anyone any better with his hands than Goniff." 

That snicker, low enough only Chief really heard it, was all it took for the younger man to get a pretty clear picture. The next few minutes were spent clapping Chief on the back while he tried to get over that coughing spell from a drink of water going down the wrong way.

On the way home on the sub, Chief had whispered from the cot where they'd placed him after the medic had patched him up, "and what is Meghada going to say?"

"Well, if I were to mention it, which I may or may not, I expect she'd say it was only polite, not letting the pretty lady freeze 'er ruddy toes off w'en I could lend a 'elping 'and. 'Ere now, Chiefy, yer not supposed to be laughing like that! Likely do those ribs no good at all!" he scolded.

 

But he did tell her, no matter what she'd imply years later in an effort to distract attention from her oldest daughter's measured, even baleful reaction to one Illya Kuryakin. And as he'd figured, she'd considered it more in the realm of emergency first aid, if of a slightly different form than was usually required in the field. In fact, she'd given him a warm hug, and echoed his own words "I agree, I think it was only polite, not letting her freeze her toes off." She took another sip of her drink, "and I agree she needs to have a good sitdown with her Andrew." 

Goniff had given her a slightly sly grin, "well, DID mention she might want to give you a call sometime, maybe 'ave lunch? Seems she 'as some curiosity about w'at else is in your top twenty list, maybe a spot more? 'Ave a feeling 'er Andrew might need a little inspiration, if you know w'at I mean. Seems 'e's a slow learner in some areas, even if 'e does 'ave a few years on 'er."

She gave him a narrow-eyed look, "and have you discussed any of this with Craig?" getting a wicked grin in return. 

"Ei now, 'Gaida; Craig don't need to know everything. You've said that yourself many a time, just like the rest of the crew 'as. Sides, shouldn't take more than a few 'ours; 'ave a feeling the little lady just might be a fast learner. Let's just 'ope 'er Andrew is too!"

Whether Goniff was just teasing her or not, she didn't know. Not til the kitchen door opened one day and there he was, with an attractive if slightly uneasy woman in tow. 

"Miriam, this 'ere's my 'Gaida. 'Gaida, this is Miriam, the lady with the frozen toes. Thought we all might 'ave a nice little chat. I'll put the kettle on, get down the bottle, ei?" and the smug look on his face was one of his best. The two women looked at each other appraisingly, then Meghada smiled ruefully. 

"So, Goniff says you need your curiosity satisfied."

Miriam blushed, then admitted, "well, perhaps."

Goniff snickered and muttered something under his breath that had Meghada turning and smacking him lightly on his head with the teaspoon in her hand. "Ignore him, Miriam. He just can't help himself."

Miriam nodded graciously. {"Still he was right. My curiosity, and pehaps a bit more. Alexander and I really DO have to come to some resolution!"}

After Miriam had left, pink-cheeked but smiling, several warm, even heated hours later, Meghada frowned at Goniff.

"Really, laddie? *"'her curiosity and a whole lot more."* Now, was that polite?"

"Might not 'ave been too polite, 'Gaida, but was the truth, right enough. That Andrew Billings is going to lose that pretty lady if 'e don't get 'isself into the game. Losing patience, she is, to my way of thinking."

And yes, she was, but Alexander Waverly, aka Andrew Billings, had some downtime and thanks to that long educational, even inspirational, afternoon, Miriam thought she had one or two ways to drop him right smack in the middle of the game, deep enough he'd NEVER get free of it again. 

And, not so surprisingly, she was right. She'd been right then, and she was still right, all these many years later. All thanks to one talented pickpocket, the one with the best hands in the business. Well, and to a Dragon who had graciously been willing to share a little time, a little knowledge, a little tea and bourbon, and perhaps a bit more.


End file.
